


Everything for the Good of the Other

by cwmilton



Category: Emma (2020), Emma (TV 2009), Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24523774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwmilton/pseuds/cwmilton
Summary: John Knightley has always believed that his son Henry's inheritance of Donwell is not as secure as everyone suspects. Convinced his brother is finally considering matrimony when he arrives suddenly in London, John reflects on George's years as a bachelor and tries to find to help him find a worthy spouse.
Relationships: George Knightley & John Knightley, George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse, Isabella Knightley/John Knightley
Comments: 35
Kudos: 365





	1. Part I

> “This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley made his appearance, and “How d'ye do, George?” and “John, how are you?” succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other.” 
> 
> — _Emma,_ Vol I Chapter XII
> 
> “I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.—But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'”
> 
> — Mr. Knightley, _Emma,_ Vol III Chapter XVII

Mr. John Knightley had already written to Eton to reserve a spot for Henry in the coming year. If Isabella and her nerves could not part with Henry, he would find an appropriately rigorous tutor in London who would make sure Henry did not neglect his maths and languages. In a visit to the park a few weeks ago—while Henry and John caught frogs with some older boys, the Lewises—he asked Mr. Lewis if he might recommend a tutor for Henry’s education. 

Mr. Lewis was surprised by the question, “Surely, John, you and Mrs. Knightley could take care well enough of Henry’s education for the time being. In a few years, you’ll need to send him down for long periods to Donwell to learn the management of the estate.”

John nodded, but said nothing. He later wrote to Robert requesting again any names he might have, adding at the end of the letter, “Just in case.” 

For John had never been convinced Henry’s inheritance of Donwell was as secure as anyone professed it to be. He knew that George would ensure his nephews and nieces would be as well-settled as possible. However, there was a great difference between being the inheritor and eventual Master of Donwell Abbey and being the master’s cousin. John himself had found a gentlemanly profession at which he excelled, and he wanted to ensure Henry could do the same if that was required. 

The more he examined the matter— as he did that morning, alone in his study— the more John was sure he had taken the right course of action. His brother, ever peculiar, had just arrived quite suddenly on his doorstep the evening before in the most ill humor. He had spent the day avoiding the children— very unusual for George— and brooding in the library. 

In recent letters from Mrs. Weston, which were relayed with alacrity by Isabella, he learned that his brother had also, as of late, done the following: _danced twice at a ball, entertained at Donwell, organized an exploring party._ These activities, along with the trip to London, seemed to be the habits of a man interested in making himself known to larger society. Indeed, John considered, reflecting on George’s restless spirits, it seemed his brother was finally contemplating marriage. 

It was difficult to imagine any future Mrs. George Knightley for it had been some time since George showed interest in a lady, and when he had shown interest, it had been short-lived. Eight years ago, when John and Isabella had first moved to London, George had visited them more often and had attended the assembly rooms during the season. He was then much as he was today— unfailingly polite, but with that quizzical humor that confused many and delighted a clever few. George had always disliked dancing as he hated being “on display,” but he would dance occasionally to fulfill his duty as a single man. John had witnessed enough whispered conversations behind fans to know that his brother was considered good-looking. George dressed plainly, but always in taste. He was so opposite all of the Beau Brummel acolytes in the room that he stood out further by comparison. And besides his merits, he was the owner of a large estate to boot! By any measure he was a catch for both scheming Mamas and their daughters. 

Three or four times over the years, George had inquired if a family they had met that evening might be invited for dinner at Brunswick Square before he returned to Donwell. Each time, these families would contain a well-educated, elegant daughter, and each time, Isabella would throw the whole house into a panic in preparation as she was sure she was about to entertain her future sister. 

Infallibly, by the time of the appointment, George’s enjoyment of London would have waned, and his impatience to return to the open air of the countryside would negate any charm he had mustered at the assembly. The next day, with nary a word about any lady, he would be back on his horse riding home in time for tea with the Woodhouses. One particularly promising prospect, Miss White, Isabella had asked for tea on Thursday, and George had conversed with her intently. But by the time Saturday’s dinner came to be, George seemed quite dull. As John recalled, he’d found his brother in the corner looking through a bookshelf.

“George, you have barely spoken to Miss White this evening, and you know as well as I do that she was invited here for you."

George shrugged, “We spoke earlier, and I found her very accomplished. She speaks well and intelligently on several subjects. I found that conversation sufficient.” 

John raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Sufficient for you to court her?” 

“No,” said George, still absentmindedly examining the contents of the shelf, “The reverse, I’m afraid.” 

John sighed, resigned. “And what fault, praytell, did you find with Miss White?” 

George turned to John and replied, “I found no fault in her at all. I merely said I did not like a favorite book of hers, and in response to that, she said she would have to reconsider her regard for the novel.” George nodded as if this fully clarified the matter. 

John tilted his head. His brother could be singular, but this was beyond the pale. “The fact that she did not comment on your rudeness or argue her case has turned you against her? That she was ladylike enough to honor your feelings above hers— _that_ is what has done her in?” 

“There can be no felicity in appeasement,” George answered. “True regard is founded on openness— on truth and sincerity. Why would I wish to be indulged in my opinion rather than challenged? Should I ever marry, I would want to know my wife’s mind fully, and if her thoughts differ from mine, all the better! For then we shall always have much to discuss.” 

John rolled his eyes at his brother who looked much too pleased with his pretty speech. “Well that was very romantic, George, for a man who has never been in love.” 

George smiled, “I have based my theory off of the happiest marriage to which I have been privy.” 

“Our parents, of course.” 

“Well, theirs too,” George said, and he patted his brother’s shoulder. “But I meant yours.” 

John could not argue with this assessment so he stopped arguing altogether. He might have wished, occasionally, for slightly less knowledge of Isabella’s opinions. But as he looked at his wife in the firelight, talking politely to Miss White while sending threatening glares at George over her elegant shoulder, he knew he could not have hoped for a better partner and couldn’t begrudge his brother for hoping the same.

—

Now, six years from that evening, he still had little idea of who his brother might hope for. These small signals of opening up— _the ball, the party at Donwell, the exploring party, the trip to London_ — might hint to others that George was ready to settle, but they did not provide him the opportunity to meet a suitable spouse. John had a brief thought of Jane Fairfax, but was she not exactly the kind of temperament that George had rejected before? 

Indeed, he thought George had best marry soon because his cozy evenings at the Woodhouses were numbered. Emma had clearly set her cap at Frank Churchill and, as the whole of Highbury seemed to rally in support of the match, the couple were sure to reach an understanding imminently. Isabella asked George for his opinion over breakfast. 

“Mrs. Weston writes often of Emma and Mr. Churchill. What do you think, George—Do you think Emma will finally relent and give up her commitment to never marrying?”

George took a rather large bite of toast and chewed it glumly as he pondered how to answer the question. “Emma has made her preference for the gentleman clearly known to all. But I certainly am not one to attempt to predict her choices or her behavior.” He then grabbed a section of the paper and hid behind it for the rest of the meal. 

Clearly George knew that Mr. Churchill would not welcome his practically daily visits to Hartfield, and he resented that the easy intimacy he had with Emma and her father would come to a close. But, John thought, who would want to visit a Mr. and Mrs. Churchill every evening anyhow? Frank was exactly the sort of fop that John always knew Emma would marry— someone who would flatter her vanity and self importance. Between Mr. Woodhouse's worrying and Mr. Churchill’s arch conversation, Christmases were sure to be miserable. 

As the week wore on, it seemed nothing would improve George’s spirits. News came later in the week from Mrs. Weston: Frank Churchill’s aunt was dead. Emma and Frank would almost certainly formalize their attachment now that his overbearing relative was out of the way. George sunk further into the gloom of the library and hardly even came out for tea.

Finally, John alighted on an idea that might help ease his brother out of future solitary evenings at Donwell Abbey. He poked his head into the library where George sat reviewing a journal— 

“George?” 

“Hm?” George looked up at him with a grimace. 

“Do you know what you look like you are in need of?” 

George squinted at him. “How am I supposed to know what I look like to you?”

John decided to ignore the question and said gaily, “I think that you are in need of some company. Hm? Elegant company.” John tossed the vouchers onto the table. “Almacks! Our friends the Wallaces and Lord Radford have stranger vouchers, and they’d like to take the three of us as their guests this week.” 

George’s expression did not improve, but his eyes rested on the vouchers as if he was considering it. 

“Come, George,” John entreated. “It would be impolite to refuse… and you would not have to dance. You’re too old now anyway,” he finished with a cheeky smile.

George glared at his brother. “I will attend because I would not want to seem impolite to your friends. Besides if they see what good breeding you’re related to, they might consider inviting you back.” 

John scooped up the vouchers and tapped them joyfully on the table. “Excellent! I think it will raise your spirits, brother, to be in company! You can meet new people. Maybe one or two of those new people will be gentlewomen with a fondness for Surrey and a keen interest in agriculture?” 

George had returned to his journal and said nothing in reply. John studied his brother for a second more, turned, and ran down the hall to tell Isabella the good news. 

—

John had attended Almack’s many years before and though it had not truly changed, it was not at all as he remembered it. He had lived in London long enough that the glamour of the _ton_ no longer enchanted him. The room was beautiful, but it was far too crowded to truly enjoy it, and the refreshments were paltry— day old bread and weak lemonade. He imagined Highbury’s ball at the Crown had been finer. However, with a maid taking care of the children, Isabella was relishing pretending to be a young bride again, and John enjoyed watching her. She danced with Mr. Wallace and Lord Radford before deciding to sit down for the rest of the evening. John stood with Mrs. Wallace, but he was glad that there were plenty of gentlemen about so he need not dance the whole night. 

He lost sight of George, but eventually spotted him talking to a few old schoolmates. Of course, he was off to the side with the fathers and whist players, hardly acknowledging there was any dancing or merriment at all. John called his brother over, hoping he might be able to place George in more delicate conversation. 

Sure enough, once separated from the crowd of elders, and with John there to provide introductions, acquaintances and their daughters began to make their way over. John couldn’t help but carry a bit of resentment toward his brother— who looked mostly disinterested in this display. Nearly six years off (or at the very least _ignoring)_ the market, and within a few hours at Almack’s, George was already the beneficiary of this courtly parade. John supposed his brother hadn’t aged _so_ badly— he’d noticed even Isabella blushed occasionally when George flashed her his warmest smile— but he suspected that his brother’s property was the primary attraction. 

George said exactly what he was required to say to each party and nothing more. As the evening wore on until past midnight, John was beginning to despair. He had no illusion that George would leave Almack’s with a bride in tow, but he had hoped that he might witness at least a spark of interest that could be built upon. At this late hour, if anyone could cause George to laugh, smirk, or even scoff, he’d feel the evening had been well spent. 

“Mr. John Knightley! I am so glad to see you here,” said an elegant gray-haired woman to his right. 

“Ah, Mrs. Markham,” replied John, “It is a pleasure to meet you here as well. How is Mr. Markham? I have not seen him near the courts lately."

“I should hope not. He has assured me he is keeping his promise to work less! You had best not chide him on, Mr. Knightley, if you do see him.” 

“Speaking of Mr. Knightleys, Mrs. Markham,” John tugged on George sleeve to get his attention, “May I introduce you to my brother, Mr. George Knightley?” 

George bowed and Mrs. Markham curtsied. “So glad to meet you. I understand from Mrs. Wallace that you are visiting us from your estate in Surrey? Do you come to London often?”

“Not terribly often, I’m afraid. Managing my lands near Highbury and serving as its magistrate keeps me most busy.” 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “Of course, well, you must meet my daughter, Alice. I’m sure she would be interested to hear about your work as she is most interested in agriculture—Alice, dear?”

Here, John thought, was a contender. Mrs. Markham waved over a handsome young woman with yellow gold hair and bright hazel eyes. She smiled warmly at them both, and John could not detect a trace of artifice in her manner. He looked to see George’s reaction. George was blinking at her almost as if in shock or disbelief, his mouth pressed into a thin line. John couldn’t say how to interpret this reaction, but it must be _something_ , he was sure.

“Mr. John Knightley, Mr. George Knightley, please let me present my daughter, Miss Alice Markham. Alice, I was just telling Mr. George Knightley how much you would enjoy hearing about land management.” 

Miss Markham gave her mother an indulgent smile, and as she turned to George, her eyes sparkled with amusement, “Of course, Mr. Knightley. I am sure there is no topic more suited to our present environment.” 

George smiled, but not exactly at Miss Markham. It was a hidden, inward smile, one that John felt he had seen often, though he could not place when. Then, as if a cold wind had passed through him, the smile was gone and George looked almost ill. His hands curled into fists, and he took a deep breath. 

George took half a second more to compose his demeanor, looked back to the Markhams, and said quite plainly, “Miss Markham, it is delightful to meet you, and I believe your implication is correct that we should save the topic of farming for a different occasion, though I’m sure I feel crop rotation to be quite as interesting as a quadrille. Now, I am afraid you must excuse me. We live a more retired life in the country, and I am not used to the lateness of the hour. John, please feel free to remain.” 

Miss Markham, far from being insulted, merely looked at George with mirth while her mother gaped at him. He bowed to them both, and turned to leave. 

John was stunned. He apologized to both Mrs. Markham and her daughter, assured them that Isabella would invite them both for tea, and dashed after George. He found him with his hat already on, walking out of the assembly room, and down the steps.

“George!” he grabbed his brother’s arm, “Where the devil do you think you’re going?"

George wrenched his elbow away, “No need to worry, John. I decided I’d walk back to Brunswick Square."

“But it’s nearly two miles! And it’s sure to rain tonight.”

George laughed, “You sound like Isabella.” 

He started to continue on, but John followed him, determined to be heard. “George, you must learn to be open minded! Miss Markham was charming. Someone who might put up with your strange humors and opinions with levity. Just the sort of woman you told me you hoped for in a wife! How are you supposed to _find_ her if you don’t—” 

George rounded on him fully then, “I do not _need_ to _find_ her!” He sighed in exasperation and held up his hand, pleading with John to stop. John puzzled at his brother, trying to discern his meaning. 

Finally, George began again, shaking his head, “John, I apologize to both you and Isabella. It is best if I return home, but I hope you will stay and have a pleasant night. Tomorrow evening, perhaps you can indulge me in a glass of brandy, and I will tell you all.” 

John nodded and affectionately gripped his brother’s shoulder. George gave him a flick of a smile and turned to make his way home.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all as always for comments and kudos! It's always really heartwarming to get feedback. This chapter ended up being a little longer than anticipated because I couldn't resist adding a bit of Emma/Mr. Knightley fluff at the end. Hope you enjoy!

The next day, Isabella received another letter from Mrs. Weston while they lunched in the sunroom, watching the summer storm through the glass. She took the letter eagerly off the mail tray and began to rip it open. 

“Oh I hope Mrs. Weston has news of Emma and Frank. Emma has not written a thing about him for weeks. And she has been quite dull in her letters the past few days. I dare say I know more about the nuances of Highbury’s weather than if I lived there! Perhaps she is being coy.” 

She began to read. Within seconds, she gasped, and her hand flew to her husband’s arm, “John!"

“What is it, dearest? Is there news? Is Emma—” John stood so he could look over his wife’s shoulder to see for himself.

“Frank Churchill! And...well...he's—” 

John’s eyes searched the cursive on the page, trying to discern the cause of Isabella’s distress. His eyes scanned each line for his sister-in-law's name, but could not see her mentioned anywhere.

“Just _say_ it, Isabella!” George practically shouted, and he threw down his fork. It banged loudly against his plate and fell to the floor. 

John’s head shot up to look at his brother. He was about to firmly reprimand him for the tone George had taken with his wife when he saw how utterly ashen George looked. He had practically turned gray and had covered his eyes with his hand, slumping down into his chair. 

After a few moments, George recovered, sighed heavily and sat up. “Isabella,” he said, his voice low, “I am sorry. Please continue.” 

She looked at John warily who nodded for her to go on. She took a deep breath and began again, “Frank Churchill is engaged… to _Jane Fairfax.”_

George’s mouth dropped opened and then tightly closed. He looked about the room as if he was expecting some contradiction to this claim from elsewhere. 

Isabella looked back toward the letter. As she read aloud the whole of Mrs. Weston’s explanation— _they have been engaged for nine months, it was a secret to all_ — John watched his brother. Dozens of different emotions seemed to play across George’s features, each one revealed as Isabella relayed the details. He saw in turn confusion, anger, mirth, wrath, disgust, joy, fear, and finally— as Isabella cried, “Poor Emma!”— _hope._

_Hope?_

George stood up so quickly he knocked the table and the dishes clattered. “John, Isabella, I thank you for your hospitality. I’m afraid I must return home. Mrs. Weston’s letter reminds me that I have neglected my duties in Highbury for far too long. I will call for Bessie immediately. I do not have much here, and I hope you do not mind if I leave my things until I next return.” 

Before either John or Isabella could reply, George took Isabella’s hand, gave her a perfunctory bow, and left the room. It took John half a minute to gather his wits about him and follow his brother down the hall toward the vestibule where George was already being handed his hat. 

“George, what— why? It’s pouring!”

“John, as always, you were a better brother to me than I deserved this week. But I have to go back where I am needed—” he studied his hat, “—where I hope I can be useful.” 

Bessie arrived, and George spent a minute or two adjusting her stirrups. From the doorway, John stared full of bemusement as his brother, grave and determined, prepared to ride in the downpour. His behavior was so erratic, so inconsistent with his normally steady older brother. For what must have been the tenth time that week, he reviewed George’s recent actions in his head— _dancing, opening Donwell, appearing in London, his strange humor, fleeing Almack’s, throwing forks._ He had a sense that there must be a motivation behind it all, but he could not quite place it. These weren’t the clear-eyed behaviors of a man rationally considering matrimony, they were the dopish impulses of a man besotted.

 _I do not need to find her,_ George had said last night. 

Ah, and there it was, John thought, plain as day. The “her” in question had already been found. Or, perhaps, not found exactly, but had become known. John should have understood from the moment George alighted on his doorstep in utter misery, scowling at every missive from Mrs. Weston. He stepped out into the rain as George leapt up onto his horse. 

“It’s Emma, isn’t it?” John asked, blinking water out of his eyes.

George knitted his brow, frowning, and looked out into the road. He sighed deeply and nodded. 

John put his hand on Bessie’s neck, wanting to make sure his brother didn’t fly away.

“George, you have to try, you know. Promise me you’ll try to tell her.” 

George nodded at his brother, squinting in the rain. And with a wan smile, he was off. 

—

John did not hear from George for the following week. Isabella had fretted for a few days— “So odd that we do not hear from him! After he left the house so suddenly and in such low spirits. It is a good thing Emma wrote to tell us that he arrived safely for we have not had a word!”— but then Emma had sent Harriet Smith to stay in Brunswick Square for at least a fortnight. Harriet needed to consult a dentist, and Isabella had an entirely new entity to fret about. 

Harriet Smith, while always good-natured, was more reserved than she had been previously. When Isabella asked after Emma, Harriet said only, “I am sure Miss Woodhouse is very well. She is, perhaps, the happiest of women.” John and Isabella thought she must be overwhelmed by the city and its noise and traffic. And indeed, within a few days, Harriet’s spirits were lightened by the incorrigible Knightley children. 

John was unsure what to think of his brother’s silence. He could be feeling shame or regret that he had not, as John had entreated him, told Emma of his feelings. John would not censure him for this, but he was sure it was bound to come out one way or another. He just hoped it wouldn’t be over Christmas dinner. 

Of course there was the possibility that George _had_ made a declaration and that Emma had not returned his feelings. And as the days went on with no letter, John began to think the latter was more likely. Why else would he not write?

Whenever John thought of his brother, heartbroken and isolated, most ungenerous feelings toward his sister-in-law arose. Though John loved Emma as his family, he had no trouble identifying her faults. She was a good daughter to her father, and for that he was very grateful, but she was also a vain young woman who thought herself entirely more clever than she was. He had always known that George and Emma had a special regard for one another, but he could now see their bickering as of late had often rested just on the edge of flirtation. It was no wonder George was so captured! 

Though he knew Emma did love his brother in one way or another, he did not know how she would respond to a romantic confession from George. He imagined George’s crestfallen expression as she carefully described her recent heartbreak over Frank Churchill and expressed her fervent desire for them to remain, as they were, old friends. How dare she reject his brother! It was no wonder George had not written. He had probably locked himself in his study, bereft. 

John was about to ride to Donwell to comfort his brother himself when, finally, a letter from George arrived. With a paltry excuse to Isabella, John ran into his study to read it. 

—

Sometime later, he returned to the parlor where Isabella sat with her needlework. John set down a small tray with two glasses. 

“Sherry, my dear John? So early in the day?” 

“Perhaps, dear Isabella,” he said as he held up George’s recent correspondence. “George wrote me a letter which I believe you should read. There is a note enclosed from Emma as well.” 

“How odd! And then what is the sherry for?” 

“To celebrate after.”

As John guessed, it only took Isabella about two sentences to start gasping in disbelief as small, happy tears settled on her cheeks. She read the letter, and then read the letter again, saying out loud her favorite phrases, “Oh John! _Mutually and blessedly in love._ — _Did not know until threatened with her removal how dearly I love her!_ — _Will live together at Hartfield for as long as is required._ — _Waited to write until it was all settled!_ Can you believe it? Had you any idea?” 

“I felt certain that my brother’s attitude toward matrimony had changed, but I had no idea that change was due to your sister’s influence until the minute before he left.”

“And how did you know then?” 

John handed Isabella her glass of sherry. The answer was too complex for the moment so he said only, “There has always been but one woman for whom my brother would ride sixteen miles through the rain on only half a lunch.”

Isabella laughed and lifted her glass, “To what are we toasting, John? To Emma and George?” 

John smiled and said, “How about, to Henry’s education?” and clinked his glass to hers. 

—

Summer was fading into autumn when Isabella, John, and the five little Knightleys arrived at Hartfield. They would stay in Highbury for over a month both to see Emma and George married and to safeguard the house while the newlyweds honeymooned. 

John was the smallest bit apprehensive about seeing his brother and, most particularly, Emma. He had not been exactly warm in his regard for her in his reply to George. While he knew most of the heartache she had caused had been unwitting, he couldn’t help but feel that Emma was getting more out of the marriage than she deserved. After all, who but George would be so devoted that he would sacrifice his own home for hers? Certainly not a doltish fellow like Frank Churchill. Could Emma—so often foiled by her own pride—even recognize her very good luck in securing his brother?

Emma arrived to greet them at the door. She had always possessed a happy disposition, but her joy now seemed unbound. She hugged her nephews and nieces more tightly than ever, kissed Isabella on both cheeks, and even forced John into a half-embrace. 

As Emma and her father made sure the Knightleys were settled in their rooms—“All the children have four blankets each, Isabella. Do you think that is sufficient?” Mr. Woodhouse asked—John caught Emma anxiously glancing at the watch pinned to her dress. 

“Excuse me,” she said as she practically leapt over little John and George roughhousing on the floor, “I must, um, speak to Cook about tonight. Father is most anxious that dinner is not too rich for the children.” 

John watched her hurry down the hall, her shawl floating behind her. After a moment’s consideration, he moved to look out the window of the bedroom which had a clear view of Hartfield’s shrubbery. Sure enough, not two minutes later, he saw Emma below, striding out into the garden, looking about every which way and checking behind each bush as she passed.

She was beginning to seem a bit cross when, as she reached the wall of the garden, she glanced to her left and broke out into a wide grin. A navy-coated arm shot out from behind the tall hedge, grabbed her waist, and pulled her into the shadows. John could no longer see Emma’s person, but he watched her shawl float to the ground where she had been. 

After a quarter of an hour, Emma rushed back through the garden door while tucking loose curls of her hair back into her coiffure. She found John Knightley waiting for her there, smirking at her sardonically.

“You know, Isabella and I _invented_ that trick.” 

Emma blanched. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean! There were a few herbs in the garden, and Cook asked—” 

“And am I not about to hear George’s footsteps in the foyer?” John looked at her askance. “He’s not coincidentally just arrived as you’ve come in?” 

Emma’s brow furrowed, and she opened her mouth to argue, but her indignation was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and her father’s welcome of—“Mr. Knightley! Do hurry in. I can feel the autumn chill in the air, and you’re in such a light coat!”

John smiled slyly at Emma, and Emma couldn’t help but be a bit chuffed. 

“It appears that Mr. Knightley is coincidentally here for tea,” she said brightly. 

John raised an eyebrow at her. “So it’s still _Mr._ Knightley then, is it?” 

Emma looked down at her hands and, after a moment, fixed John with a serious look. “It has always been Mr. Knightley,” she said, “And it always will be.” 

John nodded and took her hand warmly, for he understood exactly what she meant.

—

Mr. Woodhouse retired early that evening. While he loved his grandchildren, their bluster and noise had left him exhausted. 

“I must apologize to both Misters Knightley for not being a better host this evening. I would ask for your forgiveness that I must leave you with my daughters for company, but I suppose we may now safely admit that neither of you much mind.”

“I will miss our evening game of backgammon, sir,” George Knightley called after the exiting figure of Mr. Woodhouse, “And I will come by tomorrow to help with the letters to your solicitors.” 

John rolled his eyes at his brother’s mollification of his father-in-law, and George shot his brother a chiding look. 

After the excitement of the day, they all settled in for quiet activity. John reviewed a brief published just before he left town, Isabella continued her needlework, and George and Emma each sat with a book on the settee. When the soft rumbling of child’s play could be heard from the upstairs bedroom, Isabella left to admonish little John and Henry who were surely the culprits, and John was amused to find himself acting as his older brother’s chaperone. 

Besides the occasional foolish look that passed between them, John did not see a great deal had changed between Emma and George. The alterations in their manner were subtle, but, he thought, significant. When George rested his arm across the top of the settee, his fingers reached up to lightly play with the hair at the nape of Emma’s neck. When Emma stretched into a more relaxed position, she hooked one of her slippered feet behind George’s ankle and left it there. The easiness they had with each other had not dissipated, he observed, but evolved. The only surprise was that in their cloud of cozy affection, it appeared they had stopped quarreling. 

But John should have known that could not last long. 

“Mr. Knightley,” Emma sighed, turning the page of her book noisily, “I am sure you expect the future Mrs. Knightley to be very cultured and well-read, but could you have picked a more tedious book to lend me?” 

George narrowed his eyes at her and gave her a tight smile. “Emma, my only firm expectation of Mrs. Knightley is that _you_ will be _she_. I know better than to set any course for you as I’m aware it will only motivate you to do the opposite,” he answered as he shifted closer to her so as to look over her shoulder. “But you’re only on the first part! I think you’ll find that the next—” 

“The first part is about a _sofa_!” Emma cried incredulously. “What does the next part address? Footstools?” 

“Part II is about a timepiece!” George argued, and Emma stared at him in disbelief. Realizing this had not resolved matters, he relented, “Perhaps Cowper cannot be considered an evening’s entertainment.”

“Indeed, I believe there is a reason it is called _The Task_ as it is a grim job. _”_

“Next time, I’ll bring a play. Another Shakespeare?” 

“As long as it’s a comedy,” Emma said, snapping her book shut. 

“You’ve read all of those already.” He lightly touched her chin to turn her face toward him. “What do you say to a history? Hm?”

“I can only tolerate happy endings. You must know that,” Emma smiled impishly.

George slid his hand to cup her face. “I cannot see if you’re being serious or you’re teasing me.” 

Her smile turned soft, and she bit her lower lip. “Can I not do both at once?” 

As John watched his brother’s gaze flick downward to Emma’s mouth, he decided it would be a very good moment to remind the couple they were not alone. His sudden, loud coughing fit stirred George from his reverie. 

“I suppose I must return home,” George said as he took Emma’s hand and held it for a long moment. There was an unspoken implication: _Soon there will be no need._

Emma stood with Mr. Knightley and began to follow him toward the door. John leapt up to intercept them. “I will see my brother out, Emma,” John said with a stern look at his sister-in-law, “And you may see to your Cowper.” 

George kissed Emma’s hand, and she smiled almost shyly at him as he took his leave. 

George and John stood near the door together as they waited for the footman to bring George his hat and walking stick. John often enjoyed being taller than his older brother. It made it much more difficult for George to avoid his delighted, amused stare. 

Finally, George looked up at him, his lips pursed, “What is so humorous?” 

“She doesn’t like your book.” 

George accepted his hat from the footman. “Emma has never liked any book I’ve lent her. I don’t see why that would change now.” 

“Most people would expect marriage to temper a woman’s opinions.”

George brushed off the brim of his hat and fixed it on his head. “There can be no felicity in appeasement, brother.” 

John chuckled and nodded. “You are happy, George.” 

George looked down and smiled. It was a hidden, inward smile, one that John felt he had seen often. And now he knew when.

“I am most happy, John.” 


End file.
